by Cathy Gohlke
Emily stood, walked the length of the room, agitated. She sat down again, heaved a sigh. “She wasn’t alone, Robert. Jed Slocum—”
I groaned and looked away, felt my heat rise, thought I’d be sick, but forced myself to listen.
“I set the candle on the table. That is when I saw the pistol in your mother’s hand, and the blood from Jed Slocum’s chest spread across the coverlet.” Emily waited while her words sank into my brain, while the bile rose in my throat.
“She killed him. Ma killed him?” I whispered in wonder.
“If she hadn’t killed him, I would have done it for her.” Emily stated it as fact, as simple as weather or news of ground just turned.
I tried to take that in too. I started shaking, stuck on the image of Jed Slocum and his dirty hands, his filthy, thieving hands on Ma.
I began to cry, deep inside, without any sound. For all the war that ran inside Ma these many years, this would break her—must have broken her—beyond repair. Once my hands started shaking I couldn’t stop them. I knocked over Ma’s wineglass. I saw the red wine spread over the white linen like newly spilled blood, then fall to the floor. I tried to pull the linen, stained by the wine, from the table, meant to wipe the floor, to stop the spread of blood or wine, but the floor seemed far away and I’d forgotten the china was still there, on the table. It clattered, shattered to the floor.
“That is the real reason we left Mitchell House.” Emily was still talking, taking no notice that I’d broken our dead aunt’s good china. “That is the reason I never returned to Salem, to school. I simply sent word that there was a family death, that I was needed at home. No one thinks twice of such things in these times.” Emily stood up and walked to the window, pulled back the drapery, gazed into her reflection.
“Noah dug Uncle Marcus’s grave in the family cemetery by lantern light. We planted Jed Slocum’s unwashed body, wrapped only in the bloody coverlet, beneath Uncle Marcus’s coffin, before dawn.” She dropped the drapery into place. Time slowed down.
I sat on the floor, absently mopping the wine that looked like blood, the broken china, with the linen. Emily kept on. “We told the neighbors there would be no funeral, that Uncle Marcus’s body was so diseased that it could not be viewed, that the grief upon his only daughter was too great to bear callers. We closed the doors and pulled the drapes, and waited.”
She turned to face me, seeing me there on the floor for the first time. “We told people, the few who asked, that Jed Slocum stormed off once he realized Uncle Marcus was dead and he would no longer be paid. Ashland would have to be sold to make good Uncle Marcus’s debts. That might not be true, but—” She shrugged and spread her hands. “I don’t know if they believed me, but there it is …”
Emily sat in the chair nearest me. “And that is why you can’t force your mother to remember, Robert. Because once she starts to remember, she’d have to remember everything. Even if she doesn’t collapse under the weight of so great a burden, she’d talk, could not keep herself from talking. We’d be hanged for murder, for complicity, or conspiracy—your mother, Noah, Nanny Sara, me.”
I stopped mopping and stood, holding broken pieces of china, still shaking, still stuck on the image of Jed Slocum forcing Ma, of Ma shivering, trembling on her own bed with a gun in her hand—Ma, who’d always been so afraid of guns of any kind.
I dropped the china, heard the last shards splinter across the polished floorboards, then shot out the back door.
I found Stargazer in the stables, leaned my head into his shoulder, and heaved shudder after shudder. Even then I felt that his coat had been brushed sleek, his mane and tail brushed fine as feathers. I didn’t wait to saddle or bridle him, but climbed on his back, leaned down into his mane, and dug my heels, with a vengeance, into his sides. We charged through the stable doors and into the darkened street. I knew it was foolish. I’d been careful so long. But now, what mattered?
Thirty
We pounded the road until the town gave way to countryside. We ran and ran until we both were spent, until hot tears dried on my face. When we finally slowed to a trot it was just the two of us, the stars, and the moon—not a tree or house or light or campfire as far as my eyes could see.
And that is when I raised my fist and screamed at God. “Why? Why Ma? Why didn’t You stop him?” Stargazer snorted and reared. Skittish, he danced, side-stepped. I slid off him and stomped apart. I didn’t mean to scare Stargazer, but I meant to hurt something, someone. I wanted to pound something, kick something, make somebody pay. But even Slocum was dead and beyond my reckoning. I picked up speed, broke into a run, ran until my sides ached, till sweat streamed, and swore, and cursed every vile word I knew. I stumbled at last, panting, to the ground.
“Why didn’t she hold on? Why didn’t she try harder?” Tears that I thought were gone came new, and I pounded the earth. I pounded until I felt blood, warm and sticky, between my fingers. At last I rolled to my back and stared, spent and dry-eyed, at the stars, bright in their constellations. My chest trembled. The world revolved. Days and nights would keep turning over on themselves, even though Ma was broken, crazy. That she still walked around in her body was scant comfort, harder almost than if she’d died.
When Ma left us I’d grieved, but I’d clung to the belief that she’d come back—come back and be Ma again. Even after four years, when Emily’s letter came, I’d hoped. I’d hoped while getting my strength back in that field hospital and while riding toward her. I knew I’d find her, and that once I did things would work out, be all right. But things were not all right, and they could never be all right again—not for Ma…
I grieved for what was broken in Ma, but also for what never was between us and for what could never be. Even if Ma lived another twenty, thirty years she was lost to me. I couldn’t call her back to a world so filled with pain and nightmares. But I couldn’t have her looking at me like I was Pa, like I was her lover. I couldn’t do it.
“What do You want from me, Lord?” But I knew the answer—had known it long: surrender.
I remembered Chap. Goforth, and all he’d said about surrendering his life to the Lord. But that wasn’t me.
“I’ve given everything,” I spat defensively. “I’ve heeded Your callings, ever since William Henry died, since I first ran North with Jeremiah. I ran the railroad when I was afraid. I even stayed at Laurelea like I promised—when I didn’t want to, when I should have come down here and dragged Ma home, no matter what Pa or Cousin Albert or Ma or Emily or any of them said! She’d have been better off than this!
“But You’ve taken everything away—Miz Laura, William Henry, Pa, Ma—everyone I loved. There’s nothing left to give!”
But I knew there was: myself. I’d never given myself. I knew that was what Andrew had meant, but I’d fought him, not wanting to understand. And now I fought God.
“Myself is all I am!” I stood up, shouted at the sky. “I won’t quit! I won’t lay down and break apart, like Ma! Do You hear? I’m not quitting! I have to—”
Surrender. The thought, the image stood clear in my brain. But that made me angrier still.
“I can’t fight if I surrender! Look at them! They need me!”
But I knew the answer to that too: They are Mine. I had always known it.
I also knew that I knew what was best for them—best for all of us. I knew better than God. So I laughed out loud. “Yours? Look what’s happened to them! Is that how You take care of Your own?” Still the words stood clear in my mind, rang with the truth of Scripture. I kicked at the dirt, kicked at the images in my brain, and trudged down the road, determined to shut out, to drown the voice in my head.
Finally I stopped in the middle of the road and demanded, “I want to love Ma, even though she’s what she is. But I can’t. I can’t love her like this. I want her to love me!”
Love Me first The idea was not new.
It was the thing I’d never done. I’d loved God, but never first. I’d begged His help, His protect
ion, even His direction. I’d followed His dictates from the Bible the best I knew them, but only when it helped my feet walk the path I’d already set. I’d asked Him to guide me, help me out of tight and sorry spots-like those runs for the Underground Railroad. But part of me had wanted the thrill of all that anyway, and I’d come to think of God’s will and care as a clap on my back, a hand on my shoulder, helping me do whatever I thought best, whatever I’d set out to do.
None of this was going according to my plans.
A Scripture pestered my mind, one I’d learned long ago: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart, and lean not on thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
“It’s too hard to trust You now!” I screamed. “I don’t want to lose anyone else! I want You to do it my way!”
My shout jarred me. Even I recognized that same shrill, demanding, bound-up plea I’d heard in Ma when she ordered Ruby, treated her like a slave, no matter that Ruby was busy doing what was best for Ma. That knowledge slammed me with the force of Ruby’s shovel.
In my bent to have my way I was just as crazed as Ma—just as demanding. I’d ordered God like He was my slave, there to wait on my wants and whims, hand and foot—no matter if those orders were the worst thing for all of us. That thinking unsettled me.
Could God know something I didn’t? What if I did trust Him, surrender to Him? Would that make me His slave?
I remembered something Rev. Goforth had said, years ago, about being a slave for Christ. He’d said, “Slavery comes in many forms. Some people, like the Negroes here, are slaves to other people. Some of us are slaves to sin, or worldliness, or greed. I aim to live as a slave to Christ, because only then am I free…. We’re all in some kind of bondage …. Most of us have the freedom to choose that slavery, whether we realize it or not.”
I’d not understood what he meant. But maybe it had something to do with giving up control. What if I didn’t have to plan it all, fix it all? Could I be free of the pain, the worry? If I stopped waging my own war inside, like Ma had done all these years, would He—could He—lead me into some path of peace? I needed peace. Had Ma ever tried to surrender—to give her load over to God?
“Ma’s forgotten me,” I whispered.
Another Scripture filled my mind. “Though a mother forgets her suckling child, I will not forget thee.”
And then the promises, learned over all the years of our evening read, the read I’d not kept for months, but that had been engraved in my mind, written on my heart since I was a toddle baby, came flooding back:
“I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.”
“I will love thee with an everlasting love.”
“I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
I needed hope. I needed a future. I needed to trust someone.
On that dirt road, in the middle of that dark night, I surrendered my life to the Lord—my broken plans, my purposes, and the longings I’d been so set to see through. And then, because I couldn’t hold it any longer, I gave Him my hatred of Cousin Albert, my fear for Pa. I gave Him my love of Emily. I held nothing back, not Ma, not even my revenge toward Jed Slocum. I figured God had already taken care of that.
I emptied myself of me and asked Him to fill me with His Spirit. It was not the bargain most of my prayers had been. I could not hope that Ma would change, held no expectation that she would be anything different than what she was. I knew I could not keep going on that path in my own strength. It was not enough, would never be enough. So I asked Him to be strength in me. It didn’t mean quitting. It meant beginning. It meant I no longer walked alone.
Thirty-One
I felt, but couldn’t see Stargazer through the pea-soup fog as he nuzzled me awake by the side of the road. With my first conscious breath I sank again into the peace God had poured into me. I couldn’t help but wonder if it would still be there when I stood up, took a step.
I reached up to stroke Stargazer’s velvet nose, grateful for my friend. “You’re right, boy. We should get back.”
I shook the sleep and cold from my limbs, stamped my feet to get my blood moving. I could have climbed on Stargazer’s back but wanted to walk with his nose at my shoulder, to share this time as long as we could. Gray fog swirled around our feet, our legs, and grew up, like clouds, around us. Except that I could feel the dirt road through my shoes, hear my own footsteps, I wouldn’t have known if we walked the road or wandered off into a field.
If we could get back to town before the fog lifted, we might slip into Stargazer’s stall unseen. I was cautious, straining my ears to hear the hoofbeats of other horses, the footsteps of other men, but I wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t all up to me.
I climbed on Stargazer’s back. Even in the fog he seemed to have a homing sense, and we made good time.
I’d stabled, watered, fed, and brushed him before the fog began to lift. Outside the stable, near the garden, I heard the digging, scraping of a shovel. I knew the garden was no more than fifteen feet in front of me, but I wasn’t about to get whaled by a shovel again. “Ruby?” I whispered across the yard. The digging stopped.
“Robert?” I’d startled her.
“It’s me. What are you doing out here?”
“I’m fixing to hide Miz Charlotte’s things, before those dirty Yankees run over the place, steal us blind.” Her strained whisper scraped the edge of fear.
“You’re really expecting Yankees here? I thought that was Ma’s fancy.” It seemed unlikely to me.
“Why you think folks pulling out of town day after day?”
“But we’re so far from anywhere. There’s no ports, no forts anywhere near here.”
“There’s railroads nearby. Near as I can tell, that Gen. Sherman is bent on tearing up every rail in the Confederacy. They say his soldiers rip them up, burns them hot in the fire, then twists those rails round trees—Uncle Billy’s neckties, they call them.”
“I heard about that,” I said.
Ruby kept digging. “His bummers drink and burn and lynch till they don’t know what all they done. Burn barns, houses, churches—makes no difference to them. After they eat or carry off all they want, they salt the land.”
I remembered what I’d heard in Salem. But Ruby seemed sure of so much. I didn’t know if it was truth or fear talking. “They say he burned his way from Atlanta to the sea,” I said.
“We know that. What we don’t know is whether or not we standing in Gen. Sherman’s path. Emily—Miz Emily—say she expects him to turn north and march up to Petersburg, Virginia, to help Gen. Grant take Richmond. Not much standing between but South Carolina and North Carolina, and nothing stands between Gen. Sherman and his bummers, lest it’s hid so good they can’t find it.”
I didn’t want to tell Ruby that her garden would be one of the first places they’d search, the first pie they’d poke their ramrods through. Men who’d been living off the land for years knew about hiding places, knew a garden with loose earth would be a likely place to dig. She stopped digging of a sudden.
“Let me do that for you, Ruby.” I reached for the shovel.
“I know it’s not much use. I know they’ll look here. They’ll tear up the garden and the attic and the cellar, and they’ll likely throw Mama out of her deathbed.” Ruby’s voice caught. “And I’ve got to get this garden ready to plant. God only knows how we’re gonna keep feeding all those children.” She swiped at her forehead. “But I got to do something. I’ll go crazy with the waiting.”
I saw her outline through the lifting fog, reached for her arm. “We’ve got enough crazy people around here without you going down that road, Ruby. You’ve been strong a long time. You have to stay strong.” I tried to make the smile come through my voice, but her words about Nanny Sara’s deathbed scared me. I’d not even seen Nanny Sara yet. “You’ve got a son—your own son—to see to—a son who’s willing to march agai
nst both armies to find you.”
“Oh, Mista Robert, I pray it’s true. I pray it won’t be too late by the time he finds me.”
“Keep faith, Ruby. You couldn’t be Nanny Sara’s daughter unless you carried more than a normal woman’s share.” And then I asked, “How is Nanny Sara? I haven’t seen her yet, and you said she was feeling poorly.”
“More than poorly. Mama be dying.”
“Nanny Sara?” I didn’t want to take that in.
Ruby shook her head and looked away. “She’s old. She’s so old and full of care. It’s high time she laid that burden down. I think she’s just waiting to know we’ll all be all right.” Ruby handed me the shovel. “Trouble is, I don’t know that we’re gonna be all right. I almost wish she could go to sleep believing.”
“We are going to be all right, Ruby. I know it.”
She laughed, a sad and hopeless laugh. “How can you ever know such a thing? Especially now, with that Satan nearly at our door?”
That’s when we heard the high-pitched laughter from inside the house and the banging of the front door knocker.
“Oh, Lord. That’s Miz Caroline. I thought she’d sleep through the morning.” We both took off at a clip. I held the back door for Ruby.
Ma stood in her nightdress in the kitchen, pouring across the floor whatever had been cooking in the kettle on the stove.
“Miz Caroline! What are you doing?” Ruby nearly screamed. “That’s all the food we’ve got for today!”
“Ruby! You expect me to eat this pig slop?” Ma screeched her high-pitched laugh. “I’d sooner eat the leavings of slaves.” Her laughter changed to anger, each word bitten with spite. “You’ll prepare me something decent to eat, or I’ll tell Papa you’ve been stealing my food. He won’t stand for it, you know! He’ll have you whipped! I’ll have you whipped!”